


The Scrapes and The Scars

by Grinner_H



Series: Soulmates [6]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 08:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8571457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: For this prompt : Your soulmate is dead and the only way you two can see each other again is in your dreams and everyday your soulmate tries to make sure you know they love you and will always be there for you the moment you close your eyes and retire for the night (selected by Ash from Soulmate AU Story Ideas).





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YamatosSenpai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YamatosSenpai/gifts).



> For this prompt : _Your soulmate is dead and the only way you two can see each other again is in your dreams and everyday your soulmate tries to make sure you know they love you and will always be there for you the moment you close your eyes and retire for the night_ (selected by **[Ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashida)** from **[Soulmate AU Story Ideas](https://silentpeaches.tumblr.com/post/125291322610/soulmate-au-story-ideas)** ).

You've always hated this city. 

Hated the way it's always smelled like steel and concrete and poison. Hate the way it _still_ smells like despair and death. 

It always smells like despair and failure whenever you're around him. 

"This is so fucked up," you say, breath shaky and ragged like some angry, pathetic thing. You run your fingers through your pale hair. You can't tell if you're laughing or crying.

Yoh looks at you, posture relaxed, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark dress slacks. He's balancing upon the precarious ledge of this skyscraper rooftop. You take in his dark hair, his dark suit, his dark shoes - everything about him's always so fucking _dark_ \- and you think that he looks like an ominously looming shadow. 

He regards you with his contemplative gaze, black eyes that glint with silver beneath the blistering sun. 

Your fingers still in your hair, nails digging into your scalp. The world reeks of blood. It makes you want to rush forward, pull him into a breath-stealing embrace, fall off the edge with him.

You remain rooted where you are. Your hand falls limp against your side. "This is so fucked up," you reiterate, loathing the choking, laughing sob in your voice.

Yoh stares at you like he's hovering between agony and relief. "I know."

—

Most days, you shrug on your jacket, slip on your shoes, check your pockets for your keys, your wallet, your cellphone. 

You check your reflection in the hallway mirror. Pretend you don't see the deep, dark circles rimming your dead blue eyes.

Pretend that you didn't tighten your watch against your right wrist, just so you wouldn't feel your pulse beating beneath your pale, pale skin.

—

Somedays, you find yourself perched upon the highest branch of the sturdy oak tree you used to sit in when you were fourteen.

You kick your dangling feet. You wonder how many bones you would break if you fell. You wonder if you'd die of shock before you hit the ground.

Yoh leans against the old trunk. He smokes a cigarette. Blows bluish-gray smoke in your face the way he used to, back when you were both too young, too daring, too fucking _alive._

_"Cunt,"_ you say, grinning like there isn't a spiked ball in your throat, this terrifying, aching emptiness in your chest. 

_"Fucktard,"_ Yoh returns smoothly, grins at you like a menace, all trenchant wit and wolf's teeth.

And you smile, almost convinced that, for some brief hours, you could be happy.

—

 _The grass has grown too long,_ you muse absently, staring out the window at your unkempt lawn. _I wonder what it would feel like to lie in it._

Yoh is playing _Our Love Affair_ on the grand piano in your den. You watch his reflection upon the glass. The book in your lap lies forgotten.

The moment feels like a lie.

—

There are moments when you catch yourself staring at the clock upon your nightstand, unable to fall asleep. You watch the numbers blink red, red, red. 

You try not to think about blood sighing out from beneath Yoh's broken, mangled body; creeping along the asphalt, dyeing the soles of your leather shoes crimson.

—

Sometimes, it's the hard, cold metal of the bar stool against your skin. The lone ball of ice in your glass, melting into amber. 

Yoh doesn't ask you about your day. He doesn't say, _"You should've moved your four-thirty to two so you wouldn't have had to miss the game."_ Doesn't say, _"We're out of ramen"_ or, _"Daphna Dove's playing tonight. You wanna come with?"_

All you've got is his company. The scent of his cologne. The shift of his weight upon the bar stool. He drinks his beer. Rests his palm upon the counter so that your hands align, your fingers touch.

You sip your whiskey. Twine your fingers with his.

—

Akihito had tried to help you once. 

But the pills kept the dreams away. 

You'd flushed them down the toilet, chose to drink yourself to sleep instead.

—

It feels good like this, lying on the beach. Close enough to feel the waves rushing toward the shore, breaking against the soles of your bare feet. You glance at Yoh who's lying beside you, still in his suit, in his shoes. He's always looked good with sand in his hair.

"Stop staring, Miki," he says, eyes closed. 

You've long since given up telling him that the _k_ in your name is meant to be silent. You've stopped telling him you hate that ridiculous nickname. You know he only does it because he gets off on annoying you.

"I can't help it," you return, flippant, like the sound of your heart's beat isn't trying to drown out the waves. "You're nice to look at."

Yoh scoffs; this sarcastic, incredulous thing. Doesn't open his eyes. Doesn't try to hide his smile.

—

You spend most mornings wishing you didn't have to wake up. But you always inevitably do. 

And it feels like you're watching him die, all over again.

—

"You shouldn't blame yourself," Yoh admonishes quietly, frowning. He's sitting on the bench behind you, in the bleachers overlooking the football field. He leans back, inhales his regular brand of poison. The metal creaks something awful.

Your laugh is a bitter, scary thing. "Who else would I blame then?" You've spent two years blaming the whole world and he knows it. There isn't anyone else left.

Yoh sighs, nudges your arm with the toe of his shoe. "It isn't like I've really left you."

You turn your head to stare out at the field. A futile attempt at masking the rage and pain in your eyes.

It's hard to be anything but yourself around him. You try anyway.

—

Most nights, you fall on top of the covers; too tired to change out of your work clothes, too jaded to pathetically curl into yourself beneath the sheets.

Most nights, you fall asleep with his favorite beer on your breath and his cigarette between your lips; wishing that this bed would catch fire and take you along with it.

—

"We _can't_ end, Mikhail," Yoh avers, taking your hand in his. 

It's unnervingly cold.

You can feel the skyscraper - the entire fucking _world_ \- giving way beneath your feet, crumbling all around you. Back where you began. So different, yet still the same, and you still can't decide if you should laugh or cry at the pitiable fuckery of it all.

Yoh stares at you like he always does. Intense. Serious. _Hungry._ Eyes that burn with black fire. _"I won't let us,"_ he swears, wrapping his arm around your waist in a bone-breaking hold. 

You tangle your fingers into his tie, yank it hard till his determined, shattered snarl is slanted against your own. You taste copper and poison and flame upon his tongue.

"I know," you whisper-scream against the hard line of his cheek.

And then you step off the ledge. Together.


End file.
